


arm in arm (dusk to dawn)

by moodyreindeer



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyreindeer/pseuds/moodyreindeer
Summary: Peter has never been one for the suffering thing, but he's coping. Michelle has never been one for comforting thing, but she's learning.An introspective study into the relationship between the hero and the person who saves the hero.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> excuse the gross misuse of italics.
> 
> title from 'california king bed' by rihanna.

  _The first time it happens, they’re sixteen and she’s a little pissed off he almost died._

 

* * *

 

She figured out the whole superhero schtick when Spider-Man just so happened to appear and save the school from an angry PTA parent with a very scary, very hi-tech gun. Peter _coincidentally_ ran off to the bathroom and missed the red-and-blue web-slinger swinging through the halls and isn’t just so strange how Peter was always - ?

 _Oh_. It clicked.

She cornered him after the police arrived and dragged the bad guy away and hit him on the arm a couple times because _Peter Parker, are you really that big of an idiot?_

“Is something funny?” she huffed when he couldn’t stop laughing, clutching his bruised arm even as he was doubled over in hysterics.

Peter looked up at her, eyes sparked mischievously. “MJ, you care about me.”

Michelle denied it, obviously, with every fiber in her being. Really, _her?_   Care about Peter Parker? _Please._

But she refused to let him do anything without her helping out behind the mask.

The rest is history, really.

 

* * *

 

Most nights are pretty tame: a mugging here, a bank robbery there. Normal petty crimes that are generously left alone by the police for the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

Most nights Peter tries to keep her and Ned from helping. He lists a lot of reasons, some of them logical, most not-so-much. It's really just a long way of him saying _I don’t want you to get hurt_.

Which is nice and all, but Michelle was able to protect herself long before he was bitten by that spider and that hasn’t changed.

So here she is, freezing her ass off on the roof of his apartment building, curled around her laptop for warmth, helping him with his night shift.

It's been a quiet evening so far, only one confused tourist couple needing assistance. The calm of the night makes Peter antsy, and when Peter gets antsy, he totally abuses the comm and chatters about anything and everything. Michelle's developed a system of deciding which thing he says deigns a reply - most of it doesn't.

“I should be getting some kind of paycheck for this,” she comments as she switches from one traffic camera to another.

Static crackles in her ear; a laugh, albeit a frozen one because it’s October and it’s fucking nighttime.

“Isn’t keeping the citizens of Queens safe enough of a reward?” Peter asks.

“As your eyes on the streets, Tony Stark should be giving me a little compensation for my donated time.”

She’s only half-joking because, come _on_ , why should Peter be the only one showered with expensive gifts from billionaires?

“Ha -" The line shrieks in her ear so loud that she falls over.

“Peter?” she asks sharply, scrambling to her feet. “Peter, answer me!”

Static. A thump, a shriek -

“I gotta go.” The line goes dead.

Michelle allows herself one second of paralyzing disbelief. Then she picks up her laptop and tracks his suit because _you don’t just fucking do that, Peter Parker_.

She finds him on the corner of the seediest streets in Queens. Honestly, it’s like he _wants_ to die.

Any sign of of criminal activity is gone, which is good because whatever the threat was is clearly gone now. But Peter is leaning against a brick wall with his mask off and clutching his side, which is very bad.

“ _You idiot_ ,” she hisses as she heaves his arm over her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he insists. She wants to punch him, but his words are already a little slurred and he’s kind of off-balanced, so she spares him. For now.

“Shut up,” she tells him.

Then she drags him home.

Peter has scared the hell out of her enough times that Michelle picked up some first-aid skills. Nothing too fancy, but enough to clean his wounds and wrap them properly.

“You are _lucky_ you don’t need stitches,” she says viciously once he’s showered off the blood and grime. Michelle has no clue how the blood stains are going to come out of that suit, but she figures that Tony Stark can handle that issue if he was so keen on making the damn thing.

“It doesn’t even feel that bad,” Peter scoffs. Michelle dabs the cut with antiseptic, smirking when he yelps at the sting. “ _Ow._ ”

“Would you stop squirming?” Michelle uses a knee to keep his side pinned to the bed. “You’re going to irritate the wound.”

Mercifully, he stops worming around long enough for her to finish cleaning the wound and wrap with a bandage.

“Thanks,” he says once she lets him up. He goes to run his fingers over the bandage, but Michelle bats his hand away before he can touch it.

“You’ll pick the bandages off and I am _not_ running over here at four in the morning to fix them.” _Again_ , she adds silently, because she swore to herself she would forget the other time ever happened.

Peter pouts and runs his hand through his hair again. Michelle notices the wince as his fingers catch on a knot at the nape of his neck. Why is she not surprised?

“Do you ever brush your hair?” she huffs as she runs a cursory finger through the said curl.

Peter grunts, pulling his head away. “It gets tangled sometimes under the mask. No big deal.”

“It’s going to look like a rat’s nest.”

“I’ll worry about it in the morning!”

“Sleeping on it will just make it worse.”

“ _MJ_ ,” his whines, but she’s already searching the room for a brush. She finally finds one in the bathroom, and she returns armed with his aunt’s leave-in conditioner and a face of stone.

“Sit.”

Whether from exhaustion or no desire for a fight, Peter obeys on the first command and settles on the floor, leaning against the bed. Michelle climbs on the bed and situates herself until his head can be easily accessed between her legs.

“Not a word,” she bites out, then gets to work on his hair.

It’s a little awkward at first. She overestimates how much product his hair needs and ends up making the damp strands greasy with conditioner; she yanks the brush a little harder than necessary because she’s used to the impossible knots of black hair. Aside from the occasional  _ow_ , Peter doesn’t seem to mind all that much.

He even seems to be enjoying it, which is - well. Not what she was expecting.

Once all the big knots are taken care of, Michelle settles into a rhythm of slow, even brushes through his hair, slicking it back.

Front to back. Front to back. Front to back.

She tries to convince herself this is just like telling him which street route is faster or treating his wounds, but she knows this is bullshit because she can feel the frantic thump of her heart as his hair slides through her fingers.

And, yeah, she knows she’s pathetic. But the weight of his body against her legs and the easy rise and fall of his chest says that he might be getting more out of this than she is, so who is she to take this from him?

Michelle doesn’t remember when, but at some point she loses the brush and any pretense of staying platonic and just runs her fingers through the silky strands.

“MJ?” Peter mumbles.

She freezes. “Yeah?” she answers stiffly.

“Thank you.”

She relaxes once again; on the way down, she lets her hand brush against the back of his neck a little longer than necessary. “Don’t mention it.”

 

* * *

 

And if something like that became a semi-regular occurrence, well.

It’s not exactly the worst idea ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the lovely and supportive comments!

_The second time it happens, they’re seventeen and she’s still trying to figure it out._

 

* * *

 

Michelle hates winter.

More specifically, she hates snow. And being cold. And slipping on ice.

She watches the snow continue its rapid descent as she sits at her desk. School has been on winter break for only three days and she’s already exhausted all of her ways of keeping busy: reading, writing, hanging with her younger sister, and helping her mother around the house.

It’s midnight, she’s wide awake, and bored out of her fucking mind.

She’s also fucking freezing. She can still feel a bone-deep chill through her two layers of clothing and the large comforter she wears around her shoulder like a cape.

Sighing, Michelle pulls herself up and drags herself to the kitchen, remembering to tuck her phone into the waistband of her sweatpants. She grabs a pot, fills it with milk, flicks the stove on, and waits for Peter to call as the milk warms.

Ever since she and Peter became _whatever,_  Michelle has come to have heightened senses when he’s heroing without her assistance. It’s a terrible feeling that makes her suspicious of every unfamiliar sound. Her skin crawls like something terrible is about to happen and she absolutely _hates_ it. She tries to avoid it whenever she can - she and Ned rarely let Peter get away without one of them at the helm when he swings around Queens. But sometimes Peter’s called away to assist as Iron Man’s second in command, leaving her here to wonder and worry and go out of her fucking mind.

Like right now. If she closes her eyes and slows her breathing, she can practically hear her mother and sister breathing from their bedrooms upstairs. The house feels too quiet, too still, and she misses when she could enjoy a quiet night at home without feeling like she’s going to be set on fire.

God, is this what having spider senses is like? How can Peter _stand_ it?

It’s all Peter’s fault, but not really, because she knew what she was getting into when she agreed to a _whatever_ with a superhero.

The milk begins to boil. She turns down the heat and adds in a couple dozen spoonfuls of chocolate powder. She stirs and stirs and tries not to think about her phone, cold from misuse, burning against the skin of her hip.

Ugh, god. She’s become one of _those_ girls. The girls who wait with their phone in hand at all times because if their boyfriend doesn’t call, then they might just die.

Michelle would like to think she isn’t that pathetic - she _does_ have a good excuse. If Peter doesn’t call, it might mean that he actually has died (or some other truly horrible thing has happened), so her phone is no farther than a few inches from her hand at all times.

She worries - sue her.

Just to make herself feel better, she adds half a bottle of chocolate syrup. Chocolate can’t fix _everything,_ but it’s never made anything _worse._

Michelle pours her hot chocolate into her favorite mug (it may or may not be a Stark Industries mug; Peter may or may not have found out she has one and mercilessly mocked her for it), curls her hands around it, and wills her phone to ring.

A few minutes pass: her hot chocolate is still too hot to drink, she’s still freezing, and her phone hasn’t made a sound.

“Fuck,” she whispers violently.

Michelle shuffles back to her room, cold and annoyed, and nearly spills her hot chocolate when she sees a face in the window.

“Dear god,” she huffs. She sets down her mug, tightens her blanket cape, and opens the window to let Peter in.

He stumbles in with no attempt at grace, hissing in pain when his foot smacks against the window.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” Peter apologizes immediately. His teeth are chattering, his lips are blue, but Michelle is so relieved to see him that she would tackle him if he wasn’t already kneeling on the floor.

“Doesn’t that fancy suit of yours have a heater?” she asks. She’s already untying her blanket to wrap it snugly around his shoulders.

Peter pauses, his eyes comically wide, then he turns them to her. “I forgot about it?” he says.

Michelle purses her lips. “You’re an idiot.”

But she still gives him her hot chocolate.

“Why aren’t you at home?” she asks once he’s returned to a more human-looking color palette.

He sips greedily from the mug. “Aunt May is staying with a friend upstate. I forgot to unlock my window and my keys feel too uncomfortable in my suit during a fight.”

“So you’re staying here, is what you’re saying?”

He pouts up at her, looking through his eyelashes. “Please?”

Michelle rolls her eyes. She’s so whipped, and he knows it, but she’ll let him get away with it this time.

She grabs a set of clothes for him while he finishes the hot chocolate. A year of _whatever_ , and none of his clothes have managed to make their way into her dresser, even he sleeps at hers more often than she does at his.

A part of her thinks that he likes wearing her clothes, and she may or may not get a little turned on by that idea. Just a little bit.

Michelle takes the empty mug to the kitchen while he changes.

Peter's made himself at home by the time she shuffles back; he's already just a head of hair poking out from the sheets.

She makes sure the door closes with a soft click, then crawls behind him.

This _whatever_ between them is weird. They don’t really go out, but they’re together more often than they are apart. They aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but people know they’re a thing - they're _exclusive_ , since that's apparently a thing in high school. They kiss and touch, but they haven’t done the sex thing, and neither of them are all that eager to make it happen any time soon.

But for all the things they _don’t_ do, there are things they _do_ do. Like she brushes his hair. He kisses her knuckles. She washes his hair. He shows her all his favorite movies. She holds his wrists down when they make out. He lets her.

“You stole my hot chocolate,” she says into his neck. She's only a little mad about it.

Peter hums, taking one hand and cradling it to his chest. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound that sorry.

Michelle huffs and pulls him closer. Her free arm winds around his waist and she slots a leg between his.

Just because she needs the body heat, she tells herself.

But it’s bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hey on my [tumblr](http://hxrleysqvinns.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

_The umpteenth time it happens, they’re nineteen and she’s got him down to a science._

 

* * *

 

College is hard in the way most things are: there’s a lot of people and she doesn’t like most of them.

She deals with it. Peter and Ned are here - _thank god_ \- and her classes aren’t terrible. Most of professors are young and just as desperately lost in adulthood as the students are, but at least they can actually teach. The room next door to hers houses two girls who play bubblegum-pop on full blast all the fucking time, but her own roommate hates it just as much she does, which makes it bearable. Marginally.

Really, nothing’s changed from high school except there are more buildings and she lives on campus.

In a _co-ed dorm_. How scandalous.

Their _whatever_ survives and follows them to college. In a way, it’s easier because college is the land of people who have no fucking clue what they’re doing. So the Peter-and-MJ thing? They’re as good as married compared to the hook-ups and no-strings-attached disasters around them.

Peter makes a point of becoming a staple in her room, popping in whenever he can manage it. His random (and often hours-long) visits surprise her roommate, Emmy, a laidback pre-law student who reminds her a lot of Liz.

“He’s cute,” Emmy comments after Michelle kicks him out one night. “Very touchy.”

“Don’t I know it,” Michelle says from behind her latest book. She likes to play as if Peter’s alleged clinginess annoys her to no end, but everyone knows she’s as immune to his charms as everyone else is. No matter how begrudgingly.

“No offense,” Emmy adds, “but how’d you bag a guy like that with your nose in a book all the time?”

Michelle smirks over the top of her book. “He came crawling to me.”

Which is a very simplified, watered-down version of the real events, but hey. Some business deserves to stay her business.

The stupid grin Emmy shoots her on her way out the door suggests that she doesn’t believe Michelle, anyway. Which is fine. Whatever. Emmy can think whatever she wants, but it won’t change the fact that Michelle has the savior of Queens wrapped around her little finger.

And if the vice-versa is true, too, well. That’s her business.

 

* * *

 

Due to some ironic twist of fate, their resident hall happens to have one of the worst RAs to ever work a resident hall. Most people take advantage by smoking weed in their rooms and not hiding the evidence with a can of Febreze. Others, however, use the lack of real supervision to room-hop to their heart’s content, hanging socks and the occasional bra to warn their roommates away for the night.

By sophomore year, Michelle and Emmy are still roommates, and Michelle has become somewhat of a pushover when Emmy wants the room to herself. It doesn’t happen often, and Emmy’s  girlfriend is _stunning_ , so Michelle doesn’t get too fussy about.

Tonight, though, Michelle was looking forward to a comfy night in, tucked in her own sheets with a good book to unwind from the stress of the week.

“Please?” Emmy begs at the foot of her bed. She’s even trying the kicked puppy look, something Michelle only lets Peter get away with using on her.

She raises her book to cover her face so she doesn’t have to see the pathetic sight. Really, Em, muster up _some_ dignity.

“Why can’t you go to Val’s room for once?” Michelle asks.

Emmy scoffs. “Her roommate is a total bitch! And, if you ask me, a little bit homophobic.” She crawls onto the bed, shaking Michelle’s leg. “But I have the most _wonderful, smart, witty,_ and _beautiful_ roommate in the whole wide world.”

“Don’t you think Peter’s going to get sick of me crashing at his place all the time?” Michelle finally concedes to lowering her book in favor of giving Emmy a pointed look.

“Honey, please.” Emmy gives her a sly look. “That boy would jump off a cliff if you gave him the word.”

Damn. Hard to argue with the truth.

Michelle sighs heavily. “You _owe_ me.”

“I love you I love you I love you.” Emmy chants as Michelle takes her exit.

She knocks on their door once, then lets herself in. Peter’s lounging on his bed, a textbook open and abandoned by his side in favor of playing on his laptop.

“I’ve been kicked out again,” she announces drily.

Peter grins at her suggestively, raising his eyebrows like a complete idiot. “Oh no. You’ll just have to spend another night with your extremely charming and good-looking boy toy.”

She scoffs even as she crawls onto the bed behind him. Why does she like him again? “Someone thinks too highly of themselves.”

“Please.” He leans down and rubs his nose against her neck. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you at best.” She glances at the opposite side of the room. “Where’s Ned?”

“He’s at a FSC meeting.”

She looks at him suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you also be at the meeting?”

Peter turns back to his laptop. “I am suffering from a very bad headache.”

Michelle closes his laptop. “Peter…”

He sighs, lolling his head back. “I _was_ suffering from a very bad headache.”

She leans up, close enough to read his face in full. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again - you don’t bullshit with me. Period.”

Michelle knows enough about Peter that she could write a very big, very in-depth book about everything that makes him tick. She could teach a class. She could make a map of every inch, every crevice of the specimen that is Peter Parker.

Being so close to a person terrifies the hell out of her, yes, but it also comes in handy more often than not.

“What was it - an anxiety attack?”

Peter rubs a hand across his face. “Just a small one. After psych class.”

She squeezes his arm. Hard. “You should have told me.”

“I had Ned,” he insists. He pouts at her. “MJ, can you please just drop it for once?”

She purses her lips. The one time she drops it will be the one time something terrible happens.

Ever since college, Peter has chilled considerably with the vigilante gig, passing down the mantle to another stupid kid with a death wish. He still helps out from time to time, whether it’s assisting with high-level criminals in Queens or chasing Iron Man around some obscure battle field. But he still takes responsibility for every bad thing in the world that has ever happened ever.

“Tell me in the morning,” she says, “and that’s as much as I’m going to give on it.”

Peter grumbles. “Yes, _warden_.”

He lays against her completely and kisses her. The most obvious change in subject _ever_ , but she lets it slide in favor of locking her hands in his hair.

Over the course of their _whatever_ , Michelle has learned a couple of things. One: she has a bit of a dominance streak. Two: he has a bit of a submissive streak. Three: both of them like to indulge it as often as possible.

Sometimes it’s in the obvious stuff: pinning him when they make out; holding his wrists so she can lead; making sure she gets off first. But there’s also the mundane things, like making sure he eats and goes to his club meetings and shows up to things on time.

It might say something about her that she finds the power to be an excellent turn on, but Michelle isn’t too concerned because Peter likes it just as much when she’s telling him what to do.

Besides, someone has to keep him from running himself into the ground. And if it’s going to be her, who's to say she shouldn’t reap some benefits of her own in the process?

She pushes him down, sliding into the wide V of his legs.

“ _Michelle_ ,” he groans as she bites his lip, and _fuck_. If that isn’t one of the hottest sounds she’s ever heard. She’s not MJ when they do this - she’s _Michelle_ , and the power shift it signals makes a fire burn in her gut.

She puts both his wrists in one hand and pins them above his head. Her free hand climbs beneath his shirt and runs over the hard muscles of his stomach.

“I wanna touch you,” he pants. He pulls away enough to take his mouth from hers and puff hot air against her skin.

Michelle closes her eyes and _rolls_ her hips. She buries her face in his throat, scraping her teeth along his Adam’s apple.

“ _Please please please_ ,” Peter whispers, gaining fervor as his voice escalates to a whine.

“Okay,” she assents. “Okay.”

The second she releases one of his hands it crawls beneath her shirt. His bare skin against her side _burns._

“Can I?” His hand slides down to finger the waistband of her sweats.

Michelle grips his hip and presses him into the mattress. “ _Yes_.”

Peter yanks her sweats and panties down and bears his fingers down in the place that makes her eyes roll into the back of her head.

“Good,” she musters, rolling her hips into his hand. “ _Good."_

They don’t say much after that. Because, well, who needs words at a time like this?

 

* * *

 

He kicks her awake.

She jumps up, half-ready punch out as a reflex, but then freezes when Peter jerks. It’s so violent that he nearly sends himself over the side of the bed. She grabs the back of his shirt just in time.

Oh god.

“ _Shit._ ” Michelle sits up, kicking herself free of the sheets. “Peter, wake up.”

He kicks his legs out again. She can barely see his face in the dark of the room, but his neck _bulges_ as he throws he head back and wails, throaty and desperate.

She goes to touch him, then remembers herself and snatches her arm back at the last second.

“Fuck,” she hisses. She takes her anger out in the sheets, twisting it in her fists. “Peter, _wake the hell up!_ ”

Peter groans, arms tensing.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Michelle scans the room for something to use, wary that touching him could make it even worse.

Finally an idea forms. She snatches it before she can change her mind and scrambles to her knees.

“Wake up wake up wake up wake up!” she chants as she bounces on the bed, getting as close as she dares.

The fifth jump jolts him awake. He snaps up, back ramrod straight as his head swivels.

“Peter?” Michelle calls out warily.

He follows the sound of her voice. His eyes are shiny as he takes her in. “Michelle?” he asks in a strangled whisper.

“My roommate kicked me out,” she recaps slowly. “I came here to spend the night. Remember?”

Peter drops his head into his hands, fingers clutching tightly at his hair. Michelle sinks back into a sitting position. Her eyes never him.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah. I remember.”

Michelle swallows thickly. “Okay, okay. Good. That’s - that’s good.”

She waits. Smooths her hair back. Counts to sixty in French. Then German.

Then -

“Can I touch you?”

Peter sucks in a deep breath, letting it out so harshly that his entire body shudders with the violence of it. At first, like always, she thinks this will be the time that he says no. That he pushes her away.

But he nods just when she opens her mouth to ask again.

Relieved, she pulls him into her lap, wrapping her arms around his waist in a vice grip. He holds himself to her by winding his arms around her shoulders.

Three years later and Michelle still hasn’t gotten a handle on how to comfort with words. Words are tricky, because Peter has a tendency to think everything is fine even when they aren’t, to the point of oblivious self-destruction.

But the physical stuff? Easy. It’s a language they both know and prefer to use.

Peter buries his face in her neck. She reaches up to run a hand through his hair.

“Thank you,” he says after a while has come and gone.

“Shut up, idiot,” she mumbles into his shoulder, because doesn’t he know by now?

She’s along for the ride, as long as it is. He doesn’t have to thank her.

Not now. Not ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hey on my [tumblr](http://hxrleysqvinns.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey on my [tumblr](http://spideypetes.tumblr.com).
> 
> like my writing? buy my first book [here!](https://www.amazon.com/dp/1983447617/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1531446109&sr=8-1&keywords=women+of+questionable+morals)


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